Ten Years Later

by Lisa Marie Latino

  17

  Day 168

  Two days after New Year’s Eve, my head was still spinning. Sure, I helped orchestrate my friend’s happily ever after in the most romantic fashion ever, but while it felt great…it made my craving to have a love to call my own burn greater than ever before.

  Maybe I should consider a career in television after all, but instead of sports, work as a producer and become the next Ryan Murphy. I could create a show filled with very pretty people and have my characters live out every single one of my unattainable fantasies. (However, with my luck, the network would probably push me to cast Trisha Martinez in her acting debut.)

  But even in the throes of deep depression, I felt a small glimmer of excitement. Today was my big meeting with James Murillo of NYS Network. This could FINALLY be the break I’d waited twenty-seven years for!

  I put on another gem of a dress from Satriano’s (aided by the help of Spanx, of course)—a black 3/4 length sleeve wrap dress, with a gold belt, black stockings, and black high heel pumps. I blew out my hair and applied a full face of makeup. Before I left my room, I double-checked my leather briefcase to make sure I included resumes and CD copies of the demo I taped with Dante.

  I held my breath as I made my way downstairs, praying that my mother wouldn’t be circling the waters. Thankfully, it was only my father sitting at the kitchen counter reading the newspaper. He looked up, shocked at my appearance. “Where are you going dressed up like that?”

  “I have a sort-of interview in the city at eight.”

  “What’s a “sort-of” interview?”

  “I don’t want to say,” I responded cryptically. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

  Dad nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “I understand. Good luck.” He smiled and turned his attention back to the paper.

  “Thanks!”

  Why couldn’t the encounters with my other parental figure be that easy? If that were Mom, she would have browbeaten me for answers, and when I wouldn’t give them, she’d run upstairs in a tizzy to her home office and track my whereabouts on the computer, which was linked up to the GPS tracking device I’m convinced she secretly installed in my car. I mean, how else did she get her information? Russian spies?

  ■ ■ ■

  NYS was located in the heart of Manhattan, a few miles away from WSPS in Lower Manhattan. Driving into Midtown was a bitch for us bridge and tunnel people, especially on the first day back to reality after a long holiday. But if you asked me, there was no “good time” to be entering the city via the Lincoln Tunnel. Cars burned gallons of precious non-renewable resources while they sat idly on the Helix at six in the morning, eleven at night, Thanksgiving, your sister’s birthday, every Sunday, and Game Seven of whichever sport has Game Sevens because it doesn’t matter, there would be traffic during all of them.

  On this particular day, it took me two hours to get from Point A to Point B. In other words, it took an hour and twenty minutes more than it should have, which you can imagine did wonders for my stress level.

  I parked my car in an overpriced garage and walked towards NYS’ iconic building. The network’s glass-encased, street level studio immediately came into view. I chuckled as I thought about the crazies that press themselves up against the windows during live shows; they were probably the same ones that called WSPS on a daily basis.

  I walked into the grand lobby and gave my name to the receptionist. As I waited for her to grant me access to Mr. Murillo’s office, I carefully studied the numerous Emmy awards in the trophy case. The prestigious equivalent in radio were the Marconi Radio Awards, given by the National Association of Broadcasters to the top stations and personalities in the country. Imagine the honor of being named the best in your field?

  “Mr. Murillo will see you now,” the receptionist said, interrupting my thoughts. “Go all the way up the stairs and make a right down the hall. He’s the last door on the left.” A loud buzz came from the direction of the door leading up to the staircase, and I let myself in.

  I took my time getting to his office. It was like walking through a sports museum; photos of numerous New York athletes who had been at the NYS studios over the years adorned the beige walls—Joe Namath, Lawrence Taylor, Yogi Berra, Wayne Gretzky, Phil Rizzuto, Tom Seaver, Don Mattingly, Mariano Rivera, Patrick Ewing, Mike Piazza, Eli Manning…and so on and so forth. Never mind the Emmys; this was the ultimate collection.

  As I approached the end of the hall, I noticed that Mr. Murillo’s door was wide open. He was leaning back in his chair, casually listening to another man in the room. The person speaking sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell who it was from my vantage point.

  Mr. Murillo’s eyes lit up when he saw me. “Carla, come in!” He motioned.

  “Hi, Mr. Murillo!” I stepped inside the immaculate office. When I saw the other person in the room, got goosebumps all over again.

  “Carla, being a W-S-P-S employee, you must know Ron Benioff. Ron, this is Carla D’Agostino, one of the brightest young producers you have in your company.”

  Damn. I knew Mr. Murillo was connected, but this scenario never crossed my mind.

  OSP Media Group was the parent company of WSPS and many other stations in the New York market. Ron Benioff was the general manager for OSP’s entire cluster of New York stations. I knew he worked in my building, but I had never encountered him (and why would I). No sooner than I was filled with hope, self-doubt crept in. My direct boss didn’t believe in my talents; wouldn’t my boss’s boss, one of the most powerful men in the radio industry, echo his sentiment?

  I shook Mr. Benioff’s hand. “We’ve worked in the same building for the past six years, but I’ve never had the pleasure to personally meet you.”

  Mr. Benioff nodded. “Nice meeting you as well.”

  His demeanor was very intimidating; you could tell he knew just how influential he was. His appearance did not match his body language, however. He was mostly bald, except for a ring of dark hair around the base of his head. He was wearing a brown sports jacket over his canary yellow shirt, which didn’t hide the fact that he was slightly overweight.

  “Sit down, Carla,” Mr. Murillo ordered. “What would you like to drink? Espresso? Cappuccino?”

  “Um, I’ll take an espresso,” I answered. Not that I needed anything to make me more jittery than I already was, but I didn’t want to be rude.

  Mr. Murillo leaned over to his phone and buzzed his secretary. “Arlene, when you get a chance, please make three short espressos.”

  “Yes, Mr. Murillo!” A perky voice answered.

  Mr. Murillo leaned back in his chair. “Ronnie and I go way back. We graduated Fordham together and have surprisingly been close ever since.”

  “Why is that a surprise?”

  “Because there is no such thing as friends in this business,” Mr. Benioff replied pointedly.

  Dante suddenly flashed in my head. “That’s for sure.”

  “Carla is getting a crash course in the evils of our business by producing that blood-sucking Ruby Smith…”

  Mr. Benioff threw his hands up in exasperation. “Again with Ruby Smith. Who cares?”

  “…and that’s not the only thing she’s sucking,” Mr. Murillo finished. “And you may not care, but your listeners do.”

  “They obviously don’t care that much. Ratings have remained steady, and we’ve actually increased commercial revenue since we’ve brought her on,” Mr. Benioff shot back.

  “Is that all you care about, Ronnie?” Mr. Murillo chuckled.

  “It’s the only thing to care about,” Mr. Benioff replied. “Durkin could have paired Tommy Max with a talking parrot, and as long as our bottom line didn’t take a hit, I wouldn’t know the difference.”

  Mr. Murillo grabbed a stray baseball from his desk and started flipping it in the air. “Durkin didn’t have to do anything; he should have left well enough alone. Little Durkin made that hire, and that’s going to come back to bite the entire station in the ass.�
��

  “That’s not confirmed, Jimmy.” Mr. Benioff replied sternly.

  “It was paraded right in front of my face,” Mr. Murillo chuckled.

  Mr. Benioff shrugged. “If it’s true, the ratings would be even higher. Consumer studies show all across the board how much the general public loves controversy.”

  I was very appreciative of this fly-on-the-wall experience… appreciative, and disgusted. As long as the numbers were there, Mr. Benioff had no regard for the quality and morality of his product. How unfair was that to the loyal employees and listeners of not only WSPS, but of all his stations?

  An older woman rambled into the office, carrying a tray of three espressos, sugar packets, and a heaping pile of biscotti cookies. I watched her neatly place the items on Mr. Murillo’s desk. As delicious as the cookies looked, I promised myself I would put my New Year’s Resolution to work and resist.

  “Thank you, Arlene,” Mr. Murillo smiled. She nodded and walked out. Mr. Murillo’s hand leaned underneath his desk and reappeared with a bottle of Sambuca. “How can you not have some Sambuca with your espresso?” he quipped as he poured a shot in all three cups.

  “I agree, thank you,” I replied as I grabbed my cup and took a sip. A little Sambuca wasn’t going to hurt the waistline, right?

  “Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Ronnie, I would steal this pretty girl from you to work for me, but she has no interest in television. She’s wasting away producing Tommy and Ruby’s show. What can you do for her?”

  “What do you mean, what can I do for her? She already works for us.”

  “Yea but she wants to be behind the microphone.”

  Mr. Benioff furrowed his brow. “It’s too early in the year to tell if we have the budget to hire—”

  “Yeah, I get all that. Carla, do you have your demo tape?”

  “Yes, I do!” I nervously chirped. I opened my briefcase, pulled the CD right out, and gave it to Mr. Murillo.

  “Listen to me Ronnie,” Mr. Murillo said as he removed the disk from its jewel case. “Give this girl a chance. She is better than the talking parrot and definitely better than Ruby.”

  I felt a wave of nausea as I watched Mr. Murillo load the CD into his computer. While his words were very flattering, they weren’t based on any factual evidence. Never mind the fact that his ears hadn’t heard the demo; he didn’t know of my existence up until two days ago. How could this perfect stranger take such a huge gamble at my expense? What if it backfired? What if—

  “Welcome back to “The Carla D’Agostino Show” on W-S-P-S, sports for the people, by the people,” my own voice filled the air. “Here to talk some Bronx Bomber baseball is W-S-P-S Yankees beat reporter, Dante Ezra…”

  I cringed hearing myself announce Dante’s name.

  “This guy is on our air now,” Mr. Benioff remarked. “He’s good.”

  “He’s a star in the making,” Mr. Murillo agreed. “Too bad they have him wasting away on the weekend overnights. Another fine decision by Durkin.”

  I swiped a biscotti (what’s one cookie going to do?) and silently chewed off my frustration. While everyone seems to have varying opinions of Ruby, it’s nice to know that Dante scores perfect tens across the board.

  A few moments later, the audio drew to a close. “Thank you, Dante Ezra, for joining us tonight. After the commercial break, we’ll take your calls at 1-800-555-9777.”

  “Excellent, Carla,” Mr. Murillo complimented as he took the CD out of his computer.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Wow, thank you.” One down, one to go. I turned to Mr. Benioff, who was wearing the most unyielding poker face.

  “What do you think, Ronnie?” Mr. Murillo pressed, reading my thoughts.

  “What did Durkin say when he listened to this?”

  I gulped, “He thinks I’m too inexperienced.”

  Mr. Murillo shook his head in disapproval. “And what did you say to that?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mr. Murillo frowned. Shit! I said too much.

  “I’ll put in a call to Durkin and see what we can adjust,” Mr. Benioff shrugged. “But you know, I’m not a sports guy; I have Durkin in place to make those decisions…”

  “…and you have friends like me that have a pulse on what sports fans actually want, and aren’t afraid to tell you how it is,” Mr. Murillo finished.

  I slightly hung my head. After all this, my fate is still in Dan Durkin’s hands?

  In unison, as if there was an unspoken code signaling the end of a meeting, they stood up to hug each other in that quick, emotionless way heterosexual men tend to embrace. Mr. Benioff turned to me, nodded, and walked out.

  “Good-bye,” I spoke softly as he walked out.

  Mr. Murillo sat back down, and I gave him a confused look.

  “You know what your problem is, Carla?”

  “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “You light up every room you enter, but you can’t get out of your own way. Stop listening to your head trash.”

  “Head trash?”

  “Yes, the pile of junk between your ears that keeps telling you that you aren’t worth it!”

  My mouth slightly dropped at his candor.

  “Don’t be intimidated by Dan Durkin or anyone, Carla. When he told you “no,” you should have kept scrapping away. It’s not his job to chase after you.”

  I slightly nodded.

  Mr. Murillo picked the baseball back up and resumed tossing. “There’s a lot of synergy between W-S-P-S and N-Y-S, and without going into great detail, there’s potential for even greater partnership opportunities. That’s what we are working on now, and when it happens, I want the best people in place. Who knows,” Mr. Murillo chuckled, flipping the baseball at me. “You might be working for me someday after all!”

  I tossed it back, and a casual game of catch ensued. “Why are you helping me? I barely know you.”

  “I recognize talent when I see it, and the landscape of the industry is changing. It’s not about hosting a radio show anymore; you need to be a brand. You’re young, you’re beautiful and extremely marketable. If our two worlds were to merge down the road, it would be in both of our interests to have everything in place from now.”

  “But you didn’t even listen to my tape before presenting it to Mr. Benioff. How did you know it was going to be good?”

  “I’ve been around a long time, Carla. I just knew.”

  “But Durkin doesn’t see what you see,” I protested. “If Mr. Benioff is going to leave the decision in his hands, nothing will happen.”

  Mr. Murillo caught my throw in midair and defiantly slammed the baseball on his desk. “Did it ever occur to you that you are in the position you are in because you lack any semblance of confidence? I have daughters in high school, and I would be very upset if they felt about themselves the way the way you felt about yourself. There’s no reason for it.”

  “Yes, there is,” I shot back. “No one has made me feel capable of doing anything great.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. It needs to start within you. Once you believe in yourself, everything else will fall into place. Have some faith!”

  I felt as if I was back in the gym working out with Xander and his corny motivational quotes, or hanging out with Katie over drinks, except Mr. Murillo’s words packed more of a punch. My entire life, I had been my own worst enemy. I’d let outside influences stop me from flourishing into who I was meant to be. Who cares what they think, or what they do? Fuck ‘em all!

  “You may have been around a long time, but you are wrong,” I finally said, teetering on the edge of tears.

  Mr. Murillo crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you figure?”

  “In order for me to start believing in myself, I needed to hear exactly what you just said. No one in this business has ever shown such an unwavering, honest conviction in me.”

  I grabbed my briefcase and stood up. “I get it now.”

  Mr. Murill
o stood up gave me a hug, a much warmer embrace than he shared with Mr. Benioff. “Call me the second you hear something.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled, brimming in my newfound poise.

  ■ ■ ■

  My stomach was in knots during my entire shift. Every time the studio door opened, I jumped out of my skin. The waiting game would have been much more manageable if I had some sort of time table as to when Mr. Benioff was going to actually call Dan. Meetings in this industry could take days, weeks, even months to materialize, and I’m sure Mr. Benioff had more pressing matters to address.

  Immediately after the show ended, the studio door flew open. “Carla, can you come into my office please?” Dan Durkin barked. He was gone by the time I could even answer.

  Wow, that was fast.

  I quietly sprinted towards his office. His door was cracked open. But before I could knock, I got hit with a pang of fear. How many times have I stood at this very threshold, thinking that I would finally be given the world, to only have it shattered?

  “Have some faith!” Mr. Murillo’s voiced encouraged.

  I didn’t even bother knocking; I boldly walked in. “Hey Dan, you wanted to see me?” I asked innocently.

  “Sit,” he replied shortly.

  I obeyed and waited for what felt like years for him to stop fooling around on the computer. Despite the agonizing wait, there was a sense of calmness that washed over me; I just knew that things would come out in my favor this time.

  Finally, he turned his attention to me. “Before I begin with what I’m proposing to you, I need to know something.”

  “Sure…” I trailed off.

  “How the heck did you get in Ron Benioff’s ear?” Dan asked, his voice filled with shock.

  I let out a breath. “It’s a long story, but I met James Murillo of N-Y-S at Miguel Martinez’s New Year’s Party…”

  Dan cut me off. “Wait a minute…you were at the party?”

  Say what? “Um, yeah, I talked to you, remember?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, by the bar…you were with Ruby.” I shot him a knowing look.

  “Oh yeah…you know, I’m still nursing a hangover from that night, I forgot that you were there,” Dan chuckled nervously. He rubbed his eyes for effect, but I never wavered in my stare. Dan cleared his throat and regained his composure. “What does James Murillo have to do with getting you to Benioff?”